


Camden Town: Later That Day

by itstonedme



Series: Camden Town [2]
Category: Lord of the Rings RPF, The Faculty (1998)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-03
Updated: 2012-10-03
Packaged: 2017-11-15 13:43:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/527940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itstonedme/pseuds/itstonedme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story is a follow up to the Orlando/Casey Connor Mashup "Camden Town." To recap, Casey is sight-seeing in London when he comes upon a dandified, steampunked, Cockneyed Orlando in the Camden Town Market who, in appearance, reminds him of Gary Oldman from Bram Stocker's <i>Dracula</i>. Despite Casey's nervousness, he follows <strike>The Count</strike> Orlando into the dressing room of a shop where they take sexual liberties with each other. Just when Casey thinks that's the end of it, Orlando suggests otherwise. And that's where the first story ends. Originally posted February 2011 on LJ <a href="http://orlijah-month.livejournal.com/155943.html">here</a>.<br/>Disclaimer: A work of fiction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Camden Town: Later That Day

It's a day of discoveries. 

First: Casey learns that the trendy fashion shop he's let himself be banged three times to Sunday in is, in fact, owned by The Count, or rather, Orlando. 

Second: It would seem that a big reason for the proprietorship is the fact that Orlando likes to dress pretty boys.

"Didn't your mother buy you dolls?" Casey asks as Orlando peels the shirt off his shoulders and tosses it onto the dressing room bench. "Go easy," he adds, tracking the discard. "That's my best L.L. Bean."

Orlando gives it a fleeting glance before reaching for the sleeveless black jersey tee he's brought into the change room along with a few dozen other items of apparel. "I once had a Bean," he reflects fondly, motioning for Casey to lift his arms over his head. "Bit more manly and animated, I daresay."

Casey squirms into the garment as Orlando pulls it snug over his hips, leaving a few lingering caresses to make sure the wrinkles are pressed away. 

"Squiggle out of those chinos," Orlando says next, handing Casey a pair of black ribbed leggings, "and crawl into these." 

The garment that Casey holds up looks like it might fit a ten-year-old girl. "These are for guys?" 

"Apparently so," Orlando says, reaching over and waggling his fingers through the flap fly. 

Casey toes off his All-Stars, and once he's changed, checks himself in the mirror, or rather checks how snugly the leggings capture all the contours of his private parts. "I don't think I want to wear these," he whispers, so embarrassed he actually blushes in front of himself.

Orlando notices and slips behind him, sliding his hands around to grip the spandexed hip bones and rock Casey gently back against his pelvis. He mouths the soft waves of Casey's hair away from his temple. "No worries, mate. As much as I regret the fact, we'll be covering up your pretty business." 

Casey relaxes within the embrace, relieved at this bit of news, really digging Orlando's closeness now that the smell of sex has left the air and they have their clothes back on. He's not so experienced in casual encounters that he's comfortable with the whole post-coital thing. Orlando's made no secret that they'll be spending more immediate time together, and Casey's more than okay with that, since Orlando is infinitely more absorbing than the zoo down the road. But it doesn't erase the fact that, now that the fucking is out of the way, they've got to find something else to do.

Besides fuck again, that is.

Casey studies himself more carefully in the mirror. He never wears black, and the contrast between fabric and pale skin brings out a creepy gothic quality he wouldn't have thought he had, his eyes more hollow and hair inkier.

"It's the lights," Orlando tells him, releasing him and apparently right on Casey's page. "Improves sales. Now have a seat," he smiles, indicating the bench, "and we'll get you properly shod." 

Watching Orlando kneel at his feet, drawing up his socks and smoothing them along his arch, reminds Casey of when his mom first took him shoe shopping, of how a stranger cradled his foot and measured it within a metal frame with all kinds of sliding sides, eventually horning Casey's heel down into his first pair of tie shoes. Orlando's retail skills are just as attentive and professional; he pairs up Casey's Converses and sets them aside, then opens a large box, peeling back the tissue. 

"Whoa," Casey breathes.

"Beautiful, aren't they," Orlando sighs, lifting a knee-high boot out of the box and stroking it reverently. It's walnut brown, all faux hooks and laces up the front with a decent tread and solid heel. He slips it on Casey's foot over the leggings and pulls the inside zipper from arch to knee, then dresses the other leg. "Go for a walk," he tells Casey, rising to his feet while he opens the curtain and brings out his cell phone. He's already chatting to someone as Casey makes a reluctant foray into the store. 

As much as Casey would like to avoid the overly informed stares of the sales clerks, they are far too curious about the boss' guest (the one banged three ways to Sunday which, of course, they did _not_ hear) to refrain from orbiting over. "Are they comfy, love?" asks one, eyeballing the boots and everything north of them. "Not rubbing anywheres you don't want them rubbing?" 

"Here," says a second clerk with brilliant red blunt-cut hair. She's a bit more business-like, thrusting an armful of leather and metal straps, buckles, pouches, flasks, chains, whistles, canisters and other assorted items upon Casey, none of which he can determine the use for apart from perhaps provisioning his next expedition into the Serengeti. She waves him off in the general direction of Orlando and the dressing room. 

Orlando has just pocketed his mobile when Casey returns, dumping his armload on the bench. The verdict on the boots is good, so Orlando picks up a rectangular piece of black fabric and reaches around Casey, wrapping it about his waist and fastening the buckles over the wing of his hip. He fishes through the accessories and finishes by clipping a belted pouch layered with miscellaneous geegaws over Casey's crotch like some kind of von Munchausen sporran, giving it a little pat for placement. 

"What the fuck?" Casey says looking down. "This is a skirt!"

Orlando rolls his eyes. "Over here, we call it a kilt, my sweet."

Now it's Casey's turn to roll his eyes. "I know kilts," he says. "This is a fucking skirt. There is no plaid. There are no pleats."

Orlando reaches over and draws the curtain. "Jille!" he calls out.

The red-haired sales girl materializes immediately. "He doesn't believe men wear these," Orlando tells her, fondling the pouch atop Casey's crotch. Casey blushes and shifts backwards.

"And corsets," she nods, indicating that yes, they certainly do.

"Well, I'll wear this when _you_ wear a corset." There, end of discussion. Casey reaches to unclip the skirt buckle. 

Jille and Orlando exchange glances. "The champagne one," Orlando tells her, clapping a hand over Casey's on the buckle and smiling sweetly at him.

*

By the time they finished dressing, a fur-lined brown bomber jacket has been added to Casey's apparel, along with assorted neck jewelry. He's playing, in fact, with a delicate gyroscope hanging on a leather thong, truly impressed with its working mechanism. He sits on the dressing room bench, a booted foot up on the padding, watching Orlando preen before the mirror. Who knew that a guy could look so hot in a corset? Casey's fingers are already wishing they could unhook all those little claws Orlando has just finished fastening over his fitted white cotton shirt.

"There," Orlando declares, slipping into his frock coat, a dark rose velvet affair with peacock feather tips bordering the cuffs. "I think we look quite smart for a night on the town."

Casey perks up. He figured they were just larking about in the store, not getting ready to take it on the road. "Um," he starts.

Orlando smiles at Casey through the mirror. "I think, sweetness, that this thing with your speech has something to do with nervousness, no?"

 

Two hours on, shops have now pretty much shut down throughout Camden Market ahead of a Saturday night in London Town. Orlando and Casey are just leaving the stylist's, and at the moment, Casey is wishing he could disappear into Orlando's shadow because metaphysically and fashionably, he's about as far from Herrington as he's likely ever to be. But Orlando is like a magnet; eyes drift towards him because they can't not. His long curls have been tamed into a contrail of leather braids and raven feathers, and Casey's hair has been pushed back by a hair band and gelled into little porcupine spikes, not unlike Lisa Simpson's, he finds, except with more eye makeup.

Casey thinks that Stan Rosado would shit himself if he were here right now, seeing Casey coiffed, skirted and made up like Jared fucking Leto. Stokely would probably find it a little fey, although she'd be all over the boots and possibly Orlando. As for Zeke Tyler, he and The Count would probably be in a backroom somewhere, lining something up – rails, deals, possibly their cocks to see which had the bigger It factor in having won Casey's ass. Casey can't help finding that there is a certain singularity they both have in common. 

And he knows Orlando would do Zeke in a heartbeat.

They stop at a popular bistro for dinner where they run into people Orlando knows, who join them. Casey works hard to keep his verbal jitters at bay, nodding and smiling a lot, but he's shy, he knows this, and Orlando knows this too and quietly moves closer, leaning in to kiss him every once in a while. The ladies at the table seem to enjoy showing Casey a little attention; he suspects they're dying to dress him too because they keep plucking at his jewelry and hair quills and plot to have him return to America with at least one pierced ear bearing a tribal spike, maybe a lip and eyebrow as well.

By ten pm (or twenty-two hundred by the Greenwich time they choose to employ), they have all made their way to a club called Buktakka, a big sprawling warehouse with cement block walls and ceilings of beams and ductwork from which the lighting banks are suspended. A second storey balcony overlooks the ground floor and stage, and acrobatic artists twist away on rubber ropes and fabric swings tied to the gridwork above either side of the stage, spinning in slow arty movements to the music of the band, which is rhythmically solid and eerily good. Orlando keeps both hands on Casey's hips, steering him along, until eventually they make it up the iron stairs to tables on the balcony which seem to have their names written all over them because they are empty and waiting. 

Drinks are brought – water bottles and small stemmed glasses with tiny slotted spoons – and a bowl of sugar cubes is set in the centre of the table. Everyone helps themselves, and Orlando slides Casey's glass before him, setting the spoon across the top of his own, the bowl and handle balanced on the rim. Casey watches as Orlando slowly douses a sugar cube over the spoon's holes so that the sweetened water can run into the glass. He nods to Casey so that he might prepare his own drink the same way.

"What is this?" Casey asks.

"Absinthe, sweetheart. How fondly you will remember London when you get home, although if we were to burn it, you might not remember London at all." 

When most of his glass is empty, the girl next to him leans over, breath washing his lips and says "Casey, come dance with me."

Casey isn't a dancer, but he's been raised to be respectful, so when a pretty woman takes his hands and asks him to dance, he smiles reluctantly and nods.

"Leave the jacket, mate," Orlando tells him, peeling it back off his shoulders, and that's when Casey knows that he's more than a little buzzed. Cool air settles over his bare arms as he stands, but instead of feeling naked in his black lycra and skirt, he feels fricking awesome and free, Orlando's finger tracing over a hip, and he follows his dance partner down the curving staircase and into the milling throng of the floor, where he finds that it doesn't matter whether he thought he could dance or not, because he can. They dance through what might be two songs or five, nothing terribly energetic, just swaying to each other's gravitational pull, a few lingering strokes passing between them as they slide by each other. She smells great to Casey, and looks great too, all lace and velvet and leather and cropped hair, tiny little hands that creep over his hips as she glides by him.

"You with Orlando all night?" she asks at one point, lips to his ear, and Casey looks up at the second level. Orlando is looking back at him, one elbow on the railing, and when their eyes meet, Orlando raises his brows and smiles, like he knows what that question was, and what's the answer going to be, Casey?

Casey's chin comes up as sunny as the gap-toothed smile he returns, and Orlando jerks his head minutely, beckoning him back.

"I am," Casey grins at his dance partner after making a little moue, and gathering her hands, he leads her to the staircase and up to their table.

Orlando hands him a bottle of water. "Keep hydrated," he says, then passes Casey a fresh absinthe he's prepared.

It's warm on the second level, hot air rising despite the circulation, especially with another drink in his belly, and Casey absently grabs the hem of his kilt and fans it while he looks out over the crowd. 

"You need that off?" Orlando asks, tipping his chair back against the rail and looking up at him.

"No fucking way," Casey laughs. "I'm not that drunk."

Orlando stands. "Let's take a walk."

Casey grabs his jacket and follows Orlando down the stairs. They flank the edge of the room where the walls are thick with people until Orlando pushes through a doorway leading to the backstage corridors. There's a couple right inside the hall, he with his tongue down her throat, she working her hand inside his open coat. Orlando takes Casey's arm, guiding him and they round several corners, passing doorways before descending several stairs to yet another hallway, where it's quieter, and finally through a doorway into a fairly large room. There's a table light on in the corner, and Casey has just enough time to realize it's the club's laundry room before Orlando turns and pins him up against the back of the door, one hand slipping behind him and the other to his cheek. "I've been watching you," he growls. 

"Yeah?" Casey answers breathlessly, feeling bold and giddy, and he knows it's going to be sappy even before he says it, but he doesn't care. "See something you like?"

"Casey, Casey," Orlando croons, and his lips brush like feathers across Casey's, then again, this time with a slide of tongue along the seam, and Casey opens hungrily, his head thumping back against the door. Orlando's hand slips down and turns the lock without his kiss pausing a beat, and he pulls Casey forward and upwards against his groin. "For fuck’s sake," he grinds out as the jangling cogs and keys of Casey's sporran dig into him, and he reaches down and slides it to Casey's left hip, then pulls him close once more so that he can skewer his cock through too many layers of fabric as he tries to get at Casey’s heat. 

Casey reaches, careful not to snag the rustling feathers and braids of Orlando's hair, and slips both hands under the collar of the frock coat, peeling it back over Orlando's shoulders. "Get this off," he orders breathlessly. 

Orlando shrugs it to the floor in one fluid motion, and he pounces back onto Casey, mouth first.

The neat thing about old-fashioned loose-fitting trousers, Casey thinks as Orlando's cock digs into him just east of his hip bone, is that there's nothing to limit an aspiring hard-on from making itself known. Not like the slow smothering his spandex currently exerts on his own struggling erection. He punches his hips forward in sharp little thrusts as if that's going to help his cause, but all it does is make more whimpers and moans swell in his throat.

Orlando's lips smear across Casey's cheek. "My sweet needy Casey," he whispers. "Let's get you taken care of." He grips Casey's bottom and hoists him up, and Casey clings to him, legs wrapped around his hips and arms about his neck. It's a frantic six steps to the other side of the room, and Orlando carries him to the clothes dryer, settling him on top of it, then slipping between Casey's booted legs and rucking the kilt up. They fall back to kissing: wide, wet, hungry probes, Orlando gripping Casey's head with both hands and Casey hanging onto his wrists before attempting to free Orlando of his clothing. 

"I knew this would be a pain in the ass," Casey gasps. Orlando's face has slid down to latch onto the tendon along Casey's neck where jaw meets ear. He's attempting to slide the bomber jacket over Casey's shoulders, but it gets stuck at his elbows because Casey's madly trying to work the hooks undone up the front of Orlando's corset. 

"Jesus," Casey finally laughs breathlessly. "You have to help me here."

Orlando curls back, his eyes never leaving Casey's, and he quickly unfastens the dozens of hooks so that he can peel the corset open and let it fall to the floor. His hands slide back over Casey's thighs, and Casey draws up his knees, planting both feet atop the dryer, and lets his legs fall open. "Oh God," he cries.

"Yeah," Orlando whispers, and his big hand travels up and over the spandexed smoothness of Casey's scrotum, and Casey's head tips back as he keens and thrusts up.

"Get in there," Casey bites out, but he doesn't have to because Orlando is already working the two zippers of the trap. Casey's cock springs free as both sides are peeled down, and he laughs in desperate relief. "Fuck, touch me," he pleads.

Orlando lifts Casey's balls up and out of the fabric. He glances up, a smile curling the edge of his mouth. "Here," he says, lifting a hand and painting his middle finger along Casey's lips. "Put your lovely tongue to work on this because the next place it touches you, my love, you'll want it nice and wet."

Casey sucks at the finger until his cheeks hollow, his tongue working the digit to a delicious lubrication. He stares back at Orlando, his eyes heavily lidded within a sooty smear of shadow and kohl, and Orlando stares back at him with a nasty, playful hunger. Casey tracks him as Orlando begins to sink towards his prick, which is – oh god -- so fucking heavy and hard it could crack heads and being held firmly in Orlando's tight grip. As he slips his finger from Casey's mouth, Orlando settles his lips over Casey's silky wet cock head, and Casey bucks once and yowls.

Orlando takes Casey deep, and slips his fingers beneath the spandex snugging the back of Casey's balls, running his middle finger up the perineum and ghosting it around Casey's hole. But even though Casey brought a yeoman's effort to felating Orlando's finger, it's not enough, and Orlando blindly digs into his pleated twill for a packet of lube, passing it for Casey to open. "Here," Casey pants, grabbing Orlando's hand when he's done and slicking his middle finger messily.

Orlando slides into Casey without overture, his finger sinking in all the way so that it can swirl and curl and fucking dance while Orlando vacuums Casey down his throat. Above him, Casey's making desperate little noises like a regular Goldilocks, that it's too much or not enough or just right, and his foot slips as his right leg kicks out and boots Orlando in the shoulder. Orlando raises his arms and captures both of Casey's shins without breaking stride so that he can keep him pinned to the top of the machine. 

It's over before Orlando even gets to introduce his index finger.

"Oh, _fuck,_ " Casey groans, and curls up and over Orlando's braids and feathers, pulsing into his mouth.

Orlando pulls off and reaches around Casey's neck, drawing him in and kissing him, his tongue still slick with Case's cum and his finger still deep within Casey's ass. He curls it, and Casey jerks against his lips. They both smile, lip to lip, and begin to laugh breathlessly.

"Now you," Casey says. 

Orlando withdraws his finger and wipes it on the tail of the shirt he's tugged from his trouser waist band. He reaches around Casey again with both arms and slides him forward and off the clothes dryer. "On the couch," he says, turning him towards it as he fumbles with his fly. "Your knees on the seat, legs apart, my pretty. Give me the lube."

Casey's scrambling to scrunch his leggings down as he kneels on the coach. This is going to be a tight fit in more ways than one, he thinks wryly; given the incredible snugness of the leggings, there's almost no play the further down his thighs they go. He grips the back of the couch as Orlando slips between his calves, one hand flipping the kilt up onto Casey's back, the other sliding the head of his cock up and down Casey's crease. He parks it at Casey's hole and reaches around to pull Casey back onto it, and they both curse as he slips past the breach.

There's far too much fashion going on for Orlando's liking; he works the buckle free on Casey's kilt along with the sporran so that they both fall free beneath them on the couch, and unbuttons his shirt single-handedly so that it can hang open. "Up," he tells Casey, reaching around to pull him upright and scooping his jersey up and off him. He keeps Casey flush to him chest, thrusting up into the tight closure of his ass, one hand playing with Casey's nipples as he holds him, the other reaching down and fondling Casey's cock and balls. They rut madly for a while until Orlando has coaxed Casey back to hardness. 

"Lean forward," Orlando tells Casey, who rests a forearm against the back of the couch, and as Orlando's hand leaves him, he grabs his own cock and starts stroking frantically.

Orlando leans back, both hands on Casey's ass cheeks, spreading them so he can watch himself slide in and out of Casey's slippery heat. It doesn't take much before the visual makes his hips start stuttering, and when Casey's spine arches and his ass flutters, Orlando sinks to his knees on the couch between Casey's legs, curling over his back and holding him close while he empties into him.

They stay like that until they've caught their breathes and the pulses have died out, and then Orlando withdraws, telling Casey to wait a moment while he grabs one of the towels folded in a pile on the laundry table. He wipes Casey's ass, and Casey cleans himself up front, and then they pull up their pants and fall back onto the couch, Casey curled under Orlando's arm while they stare across the room a little fucked out.

"Awesome day, man," Casey says. Orlando squeezes his shoulders. 

"Where are you from, Casey?" Orlando asks, eventually.

"Ohio."

They're quiet for a little while longer, the sound of the band carrying through the floors and hallways, still going strong up on the stage.

"You think I might like Ohio?" Orlando asks.

Casey turns to him with a big grin, all smudged and spikey, sticky and smelling of sex. "I doubt it," he laughs.

Orlando squints into the distance, then looks down at him with a grin. "Never know till you try," he chirps.


End file.
